Page 190 of A King's Oath

He squirmed, then shrugged with a sheepish smile, his hands out.

“Why?”

“Urgent funds were needed…”

“Alright,” Samarth turned to him. “The school maintenance is paid by the palace, correct?”

“Yes, Rawal.”

“Then what do you need urgent funds for?”

“The manager takes care of it. I just know because the boys talk…”

“Ask the manager to appear in court tomorrow. And reiterate this to the staff here — fees from the boys are not your source of income. The school is funded and run by the palace. The fees charged to these boys are nominal; and charged in the first place so that they realise the value of this sport.”

“Yes, Rawal.”

“If anything like this happens again — escalate to me first. If a payment is late, do not trouble them. If they can’t make a payment and it is genuine, write it off without making any noise.”

“Yes, Rawal.”

Moti came up for air and snorted. Samarth smiled, patting his neck — “There you go. Time for a snack.”

“Rawal,” his Prime Minister voiced from behind him. Samarth handed off Moti’s reigns to Chander and turned. The sun was setting in the rocky hills behind him, the tree cover drying in the parched air of early September.

“Rajmata called.”

Samarth chuckled, dusting his hands off horse hair and pollen. The season was going into that time when riding long hours produced zero sweat. “What is Sharan’s newest shenanigan?”

Vishwajeet smiled — “Dinner with you, Rawal.”

He shook his head and held out his hand. Vishwajeet handed over his mobile and stepped back. He was forty-eight and already a grandfather, looked younger though. Ajatshatru Kaka had moved on as Bade Rawal’s Private Secretary a few years ago, and as per Bade Rawal’s direction, Samarth had chosen his new Prime Minister. The Council of Ministers was also halfway revamped. Up until now, he was happy with his choices. Proud even. Vishwajeet was a toughened alpha with flexible work hours. Unlike Ajatshatru Kaka, he would grab his iPad and work from the sidelines of a stable too — case in point, this evening.

“Didn’t you have a meeting with the textile investors?” Samarth inquired, pulling up Rajmata’s contact.

“Done,” he held his iPad up.

“You know you don’t have to always work close to me, Vishwajeet. You could have stayed back in the palace.”

“I like the open spaces.”

“Sometimes you talk like Harsh. Speaking of, where is he?”

“He went back to town. Something about restoring a Royal Enfield Bullet.”

Samarth pressed Call — “Our friend is gone for two nights then.”

As he turned around and walked towards the pen where the boys were practising, Vishwajeet stepped back. The ringer went on.

“Samarth!” Rajmata picked up in that half-hassled voice. “Please tell me you are coming home for dinner.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I told Sharan before leaving.”

“That little liar,” her temper flew. “He is going to turn my hair white in just one week of his sickness.”

Samarth bit back a smile — “Let me guess — he said he will have dinner with me?”

Rajmata sighed.

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